Splinter
by neverbirds
Summary: "From far away he seemed appealing – a hot wet mess of emotion, a string of traumas and scars, and an overwhelming need for revenge. He seemed familiar. He seemed – well." YBxM. Thiefshipping.


**AN:** This is, in essence, a grammatical mess. I am apparently very punctuation-happy. I am also painfully aware that my knowledge of canon is fleeting, as it's been a long time since I read the manga, and if you spot any errors on either of these points please do correct me. I decided I wanted to write from Bakura's point of view for a change, and apparently this happened. Enjoy?

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><p>There are several facts of which Bakura is very, very sure.<p>

One is that kindness never gets you anywhere. He's lived - is that the right word? - 3,000 years surrounded by metal and it's poisoned him, gold and silver and bronze encased in thin veins and a borrowed heart. The right inflection in his voice, or the particular slant of his knife against the trembling curve of a throat, and he usually gets what he wants. He hasn't got time for altruism (although, really, he has all the time in the world). The best things in life, he's discovered, can be found with a good card game and internal bleeding.

Another is that good things don't come to those who wait. Because Bakura has waited, and waited. Borrowed breath to pass the time, cried himself sore, screamed and begged as his blood burnt with the need for vengeance. He may have found the Pharaoh, but all he's doing still is waiting and his patience is wearing thin. He's bored, he's restless, he's bitter and angry and full of so much fire that never graces his cold blue lips and – for what? But he'll never admit his uncertainty out loud. Because then he's really given in – failed his family, failed himself. And then what will he have left? Nothing but a rusting tin prison, and forgotten memories. A ring – surrounding him, protecting him, trapping him. A symbol of enduring love, and Bakura can't help but laugh at the irony.

Bakura may be a lot of things, but he is not a failure, and he gets what he wants. And he has always had a surprising penchant for justice.

There is another thing he is certain on, and it is linked fundamentally with the first two points: he does not, and never will, need anybody else. It is an integral part of him that has lasted for millennia. He may share a body but he doesn't _need _Ryou, can happily exist on his own – _has_ happily existed on his own, wandering his soul with nothing but his thoughts and a curious drive to discover himself, for hundreds of years. He is entirely self-sufficient, and he bloody well likes it that way. He hates people who need others – starry-eyed and weak at the knees, a mortal conception manufactured and sold to give them a reason to get up in the morning. It's pathetic, how they think they know what love is. Love is a destructive force, cold and messy and angry in its entirety and terrifying if you know where to look. Nothing can go wrong if you're on your own, because nobody can fail you. Nobody can burn your village, your family, crush you with loneliness because they left.

And the cumulative force of Bakura's certainty is exactly why he can't stand the presence of Marik Ishtar. Because he is, in essence, infuriating. From far away he seemed appealing – a hot wet mess of emotion, a string of traumas and scars, and an overwhelming need for revenge. He seemed familiar. He seemed – well.

It's not that he's kind – it's that he seems to have a weakness for it. Sometimes Bakura can see it in the dead amethyst, the cold glint of approval whenever Bakura thanks him for passing the salt or opens a door for him. It's weak, it's maddening, it's _nice_. And he knows, deep down in his gut, that his pseudo-psychoanalysis is right; that Marik has never seen much of kindness and that's why he clutches at whatever he can get. And yet what infuriates Bakura the most is his own incessant desire to watch that glint, that spark of gratitude. It's entirely confusing when he watches his hand touch the small of his back in comfort or help him put on his coat. And sometimes, _sometimes_ he swears Marik smirks, the corner of his mouth turning up in a bewildering smile that leaves him feeling warm and empty all at once.

But you have to remember that these are rare occasions, that most of their time is spent playing a good card game and causing some severe internal bleeding and, most delicious of all, some old fashioned psychological harm. But then there's moments, unexpected and unwanted, where Bakura's faith in What Is True is shaken for the first time in thousands of years but then he blinks and he misses it, and they're back to violence and Egyptian artefacts and cards. It's almost like he's imagined it.

Like he said: Marik is infuriating.

And leads him to the second thing – working with Marik seems to involve a lot of waiting. In hospital beds, for him to finish that bloody card game already, for this whole ordeal to be over with to Marik can just reveal his big secret and Bakura can go back to pretending to have a cause, and not have an annoying mortal in his ear every two minutes. And then, of course, there's that something else; something not quite tangible in the air, something that Bakura can't put his finger on and he's _waiting _to find out what it is. And it makes him an anxious wreck, just a little bit, because what he's found is that nothing is worth waiting for.

And that's not even touching on watching Marik wait. Because he doesn't _know,_ hasn't lived long enough to know that nothing good happens to the Villains no matter how long they wait for it. And it's painful, watching him, trying to desperately to get what he wants, patient as his plans unfurl and burn one by one. So Bakura sticks around, because somebody needs to watch out for that kid – right? Besides, it's not like he has anything better to do.

And that brings him to his third and final reason for why He Really Dislikes Marik: because Marik needs him.

And he hates people who need others. Can't stand the weak-willed, the dependency, the _trust._ Because nobody is reliable, and certainly not Bakura. Surely Marik knows – he means, that was the deal in the first place. They get what they want and move on. No trust issues, no friendship, and certainly no sense of responsibility. Bakura has been let down, over and over and over. And, really, he'd hate to do that to somebody else.

(And he ignores it, the tiny little niggling fear that maybe, just maybe, a part of him needs Marik too).

And so, with all things considered, there is absolutely no logical reason for him to keep Marik around. It's not even like he's good fun, or passes the time. He is exasperating. Frustrating. Bakura, a lot of the time, feels like punching him in the face. He violates everything Bakura knows, is sure about. It is really quite difficult to enjoy a contradiction.

But then Marik will grin a crooked smile, and the thin sheen on sweat on his skin will glisten, and Bakura remembers why. His smile is hard and unflinching and brutal and reminds him of home, a word which is so unfamiliar and yet comforting. There'll be a slight inflection in his voice and Bakura is suddenly three thousand years ago, safe and warm – loved. His skin, like an intricate pattern of golden threads which Bakura can't quite figure out, offers him a promise like he hasn't known for so long.

Because Marik is Egypt and Egypt is family, and that's how this whole sorry mess got started in the first place, why he is the way he is (or maybe it isn't, but it feels like it is), and if there's one thing Bakura knows, it's that family is about looking out for each other, and being kind, and most of all, that it's worth waiting for (and isn't that why he's still here, chasing after a forgotten nightmare?)

But then that fleeting moment will be gone, too, transient like a blink of an eye or a promise or a hundred years and Bakura can only sit there in wonder why he goes to such lengths to protect a basic stranger, an oxymoron to his values. Bakura will sit and listen, to the rustling of his clothes as Marik moves and the clicking of his pen and the constant, perpetual beating of his own borrowed heart.


End file.
